


Q is for Quid Pro Quo

by vipjuly



Series: ZYX's [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Blood and Gore, Bottom Dean Winchester, Crossdressing, Enemies to Lovers, Escort Dean Winchester, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder Husbands, Non explicit Dean/Others, Prostitution, Rimming, Russian Castiel (Supernatural), Serial Killer Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, unsanitary sex conditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 15:57:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19704652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: Dean makes a living off of being an escort and a killer sleight of hand. He makes the unfortunate mistake of putting himself on Russian mobster Castiel Krushnic's radar. Instead of fearing for his life, Dean is just...annoyed.Straight men are such a fucking nuisance.Especially when they start killing Dean's clients-- ...wait.Is this the part where Castiel makes him an offer he can't refuse?





	Q is for Quid Pro Quo

**Author's Note:**

> please mind the tags.  
>  **quid pro quo:** a favor or advantage granted, or expected, in return for something

Tonight’s mark is high profile... and straight. So high profile and straight, in fact, that it’s a huge risk to even target him in the first place. The Robin Hood of the escort world should lay low, bide their time, and most certainly not strike so soon after taking down Adler Corp. But the instant that Castiel Krushnic walked into the club, all bets were off, and Dean Winchester zeroed in on him like a hawk to a mouse. 

Of course, Dean won’t approach right away. It would be stupid to put himself in Castiel’s lap the instant he sits down. Instead, Dean continues to work the crowd, serving drinks, balancing trays perfectly in the palm of one hand while the other toys with ties, runs through hair, playfully taps noses. Dean’s in his element dressed in lingerie and perched on six-inch stilettos, glitter dusted on his body like intergalactic freckles. The corset cinches his waist prettily, his pierced nipples exposed, thong underwear leaving nothing to the imagination. He struts, he bends, he serves; he winks, he smiles, he dances. So many men proposition him he almost regrets turning them all down, playing the long game as he occasionally catches sight of where Castiel is smoking a cigar on a plush velvet couch, surrounded by scantily clad women and staunchy colleagues. 

The smoke curls from Castiel’s lips in the shape of dollar signs. 

It’s another two hours of serving drinks and playing nice with handsy men before Dean is finally within range. He keeps his motions elegant, almost dainty, making sure his ass is perky and his legs are strong. Music pulses, lights strobe, and Dean finally catches Castiel’s eye when he plucks a hundred-dollar bill out of a man’s outstretched fingers. The money gets tucked carefully into a special pocket sewn into the sternum of his corset; his manicured nails make sure the paper is nice and secure, Castiel’s eyes watching the motion with thinly veiled curiosity. Dean’s the only male that works at this club, but he’s also the highest roller - not that the patrons know that. 

Most of Dean’s income is from sleight of hand. It’s the easiest way to make money off of straight men without compromising their delicate egos, as well as the safest.

Now that he has Castiel’s attention, Dean politely abandons the man currently trying to goad him into sitting on his lap. Instead Dean makes his way over to Castiel, steps sure and solid, the clack of his stiletto heels barely heard, but felt all the way up the length of his legs. Castiel watches with dark eyes as Dean approaches; he’s wearing a fitted suit - Gucci, according to the monogram on the lapel - black from head to toe with a sapphire pocket square on his breast. His hair is dark and wild and there’s stubble on his cheeks, roughing up his appearance. Dean walks until he’s standing between the man’s casually spread knees, and then he sends the mob boss a predatory smile.

“Is this seat taken?” 

A small smirk filters over Castiel’s lips. Curiosity in a straight man is priceless. He moves his cigar from his left hand to his right, patting the space on the velvet couch next to him. The women clear away while shooting Dean dirty looks. Dean bends at the waist, puts a hand on Castiel’s knee, and then pushes his legs together a bit so Dean can climb onto his lap without falling through. He sees rather than hears the exhale that leaves Castiel’s lips as he gets comfortable, one of the man’s brows arching as Dean settles like he was made to be perched there. Reaching for the cigar held loosely in Castiel’s fingers, Dean plucks it free and brings it up to his own lips. He takes a slow, deep puff, letting the smoke sit in his mouth for a brief second before he parts his lips, the smoke curling up around his face in tempting tendrils. 

“Welcome to Club Diamond,” Dean greets belatedly, voice sugared whisky as he settles down on Castiel’s lap.

Castiel takes the cigar back from Dean, the smirk on his lips widening a fraction. His free hand rests on Dean’s thigh, thumb dangerously inward, and Dean makes a show of rocking his body sinuously, sensually forward. Dean lifts his hands to slide up over Castiel’s firm, broad chest, fingertips sliding up into that shock of dark hair, tangling slightly. The man still says nothing, but Dean’s not deterred. Castiel usually takes the company of women in the club, but he hasn’t given any indication that Dean’s advances are unwelcome, and Dean would be downright stupid to not take the chance. It’s been too long since he’s had a young, attractive mark.

Hindsight is twenty-twenty, after all. 

Dean’s hands slide back down Castiel’s chest. The man is stacked, fucking solid, and hot as hell and if Dean could approach him in any other situation for a tumble in the hay, he would. But he can’t, so he won’t, and he’ll make do. Castiel casually brings the cigar up for another puff, his thumb tracing circles on Dean’s soft inner thigh, fingers inching higher. Dean rolls his hips again, encouraging Castiel to touch wherever he pleases. The club beats and pulses around them, people getting caught up in their own private scenarios, the world around them narrowing down to Dean on Castiel’s lap and Castiel’s gaze burning Dean from the inside out. Another rock of his hips, another slide of his hands, and then they both freeze, gazes locked. 

From somewhere, his sleeve probably, Castiel has procured a knife, the tip of which is pressing dangerously close to Dean’s goods. 

In turn Dean’s fingers are statue-still on Castiel’s diamond-studded tie clip, which looks like it’s worth at least three month’s rent for Dean’s mediocre apartment. 

“Do you think I am stupid?” Castiel’s words are accented, thick, his voice deep and amused. 

“D’you think I don’t got a knife, too?” Dean challenges. He does, a much smaller knife, but no less sharp, tucked between the ribbing of his corset to be pulled out at a moment’s notice. 

They continue to stare at each other, quiet and challenging. After a moment the cold metal retreats from Dean’s skin, and Dean drops his fingers from Castiel’s tie, but he stays planted on the man’s lap. 

“You make mistake, marking me,” Castiel says. He brings the cigar up to his lips for another slow drag, the cherry of it causing his blue eyes to glimmer in the darkness. 

“Apparently,” Dean huffs, rolling his eyes. He shifts to get off of Castiel, surprised when the man’s hand locks onto his hip and keeps him square. 

“Should I let you go?” Castiel asks. There’s false bemusement in his voice. “You try to rob me, get caught, and then think I will allow you to leave?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, false bravado coloring his voice. He sends Castiel a cocky smile as his heart rate skyrockets. “It didn’t work, I learned my lesson, I’ll leave ya alone.” 

Castiel quietly regards Dean. His gaze is heavy enough to feel nearly violating, and Dean represses a shudder. After what feels like an eternity he lets go of Dean’s hip and Dean vaults off of him like a springboard, managing to stay graceful and delicate as he stands up on his feet. The mob boss continues to stay silent, but that smirk is back on his lips as he lifts the cigar to them, puffing slowly.

Dean calls it an early shift.

That’s gotta be the closest call he’s ever had, and he’s not looking to repeat it any time soon.

\--

Dean moves on from Club Diamond to being self-employed. It’s too damn easy to be a male escort; there’s no shortage of closeted, rich men who are looking for masculine company, and none of them are stingy. They pay so well Dean almost doesn’t need to rob them blind.

 _Almost_.

Old habits die hard.

Gone are the stilettos and corsets, replaced with expensive tuxedos that were bargained, not bought. Club Diamond is a speck in the distance, the new venues various halls and galleries that host galas and gatherings for the rich and stupid. Sometimes Dean attends these events stag, keeps his eyes peeled for whomever might be looking for some company. Sometimes through his ‘business profile’ online he’ll get paid to be a date. Those nights are always the most lucrative. Getting paid by the hour _and_ having access to all these loose pockets… a gold mine, truly. 

Tonight he attended this party stag. He has no idea who’s throwing it; his dear friend Charlie has her finger dipped in every pot all over this city and is all too happy to give him the heads up for events, for a small price, of course. So she’ll give him a date, time, address, and he’ll go work his magic. 

He’s mid-conversation with a middle-aged man who’s had perhaps three glasses too many. The man’s eyes are dark, heavy as they regard Dean, and Dean almost feels naked when he’s not bathed in glitter, but he thinks he’s holding up pretty well. The guy’s breath is foul, his cuticles are rough and textured, but if Dean can keep up the intimate conversation and handle about five more minutes of suggestive touches, he’s got this in the bag. He doesn’t even know what the guy is talking about - stock? Real estate? - when he feels a hand at the small of his back.

“Excuse me.” 

Dean stiffens down the length of his spine. Turning slightly, he tenses his jaw when he sees Castiel Krushnic sending a polite smile to the guy Dean’s been preparing to swindle. 

“My date has gotten away from me.” Castiel’s hand moves from Dean’s tailbone across to his hip, fingers digging in warningly. 

The man looks exceedingly disappointed that Dean’s spoken for, which causes Dean to finally open his mouth. 

“I’m not his date,” Dean starts to say. 

“He is my fiance,” Castiel interrupts.

The man wrinkles his nose in distaste and doesn’t even excuse himself before stumbling away. Taking in a few short, measured breaths, Dean turns to pin Castiel with a glare.

“What the fuck?” 

Castiel sends him a beatific smile, stepping closer. “I have question for you.” 

“Not interested in selling to straight guys,” Dean says, holding his ground. His heart is hammering against his ribs, his palms are starting to sweat, and God _damn_ it Charlie had the guest list to this place, how could she not tell Dean that Castiel was going to be here?

The chuckle that Castiel lets out is dark and sinful and honestly, what a fucking pity that he doesn’t bat for Dean’s team. “I was merely wondering…” Those blue eyes drop to drink in the tuxedo that Dean basically poured himself into. “...if your panties chafe.” 

Huffing out a surprised laugh, Dean leans in close with new confidence, the stubble on their cheeks rasping as he gets within range to whisper directly into Castiel’s ear.

“Gotta be wearin’ panties for ‘em to chafe.”

Castiel’s chin dips, and Dean knows that he’s looking at where Dean has a small knife pressed directly to his appendix. There’s a brief pause, and then the man says, “Naughty.”

Finally he pulls out of Dean’s space, taking the scent of expensive cologne and stale cigar smoke with him. Dean wants to bottle it and douse himself with it daily, but he’s careful to keep that sunny smile on his features as he slips the knife back up his sleeve. In Castiel’s other hand he has a tumbler of whisky nearly drained dry, and when he pulls away enough Dean hates to note how good he looks. As usual. 

They don’t say anything else to each other. Castiel raises the glass to his lips to finish the amber liquid, passes his tongue over his lips and teeth while holding eye contact with Dean, and then silently walks away when Dean says nothing in reply, only glares. 

Alone in the crowd, Dean’s gonna have to cut his losses and get out of here. He can’t work the crowd if Castiel is watching him - it’s too risky. Castiel might out him or continue interrupting him. Huffing and unbuttoning his suit jacket, Dean starts to head out of the party. 

Who the fuck does Castiel think he is?

\-- 

In retrospect, Dean should really consider himself lucky that Castiel hasn’t, uh, ‘done away’ with him. Between trying to rob him at the club and then challenging him at the gala Dean’s pretty sure anyone else would have been capped immediately, no questions asked. Castiel seems uninterested in killing Dean, which is all well and good, but he sure is murdering his wallet. Castiel keeps showing up at the same events as Dean. Even when Charlie triple checks the list! Being the mafia boss allows Castiel to go anywhere in the city but Jesus, how does he know where Dean’s going to be? Is he stalking him, or is he just showing up to parties hoping that Dean will be there?

And why the fuck does he care?

Dean _hates_ straight guys. 

Especially good looking, dangerous, _infuriating_ straight men. 

Castiel _always_ interrupts Dean. Even if Dean is just standing alone nursing a drink and pretending to ignore the man, he’s always _there_. He doesn’t always approach, at least - sometimes when Dean just catches sight of him, it’s enough to make him exit the party and curse up a storm on the way out. Castiel is toying with him, Dean knows, and it’s really fucking annoying. Castiel Krushnic is the most feared Russian mobster in the Eastern half of the country and here he is, playing cat and mouse with Dean fucking Winchester.

Dean’s pretty sure Castiel doesn’t even know his fucking name. 

\--

As suddenly as Dean starts seeing Castiel every-freaking-where, Castiel disappears. Dean manages to go to four - _four!_ \- parties, uninterrupted. He makes a fucking killing, back on his game without any distractions. Cufflinks, tie pins, even a whole wallet. Good scores, and he only had to kiss one dude on the mouth. Dean might bleed blue, purple, and pink, but he’s not actually that willing to jump into bed with potential marks. Even when he’s escorting, he typically manages to get his date drunk enough to not notice him leave, and by the time the old coots pass out on silk sheets, the money is already in Dean’s bank account. 

Near the tenth party, Dean starts to wonder where Castiel is. The guy basically has an invite to everything in the city due to his status, and while he’s kind of a socialite for attending many of them, it’s no secret that Castiel tends to stick to the shadows and observe quietly. He always has a different woman on his arm, is shaking hands like he’s going down an assembly line, and everyone notices his presence. 

So it’s only normal for Dean to notice his absence, right?

Dean smiles with decadence and dates with elegance, the perfect arm candy. His suits are fitted, his hair is groomed. He wears diamonds in his ears, rubies on his watch, his smile made of pearls. Men are the easiest targets but Dean dates his fair share of women, too, advertising his versatility at every event. No one’s the wiser about him since he fits in so effortlessly, and that’s how he prefers it. Castiel isn’t here to draw unnecessary attention to him and for that, he’s thankful.

Still, though.

Why would a mob boss suddenly stop attending lavish parties? 

“You wanna get out of here?” 

Dean re-enters the one-sided conversation a congressman has been having with him. Flashing a sultry smile, Dean presses close, his quiet suggestion answer enough. 

Put Krushnic out of your mind, Winchester. 

It’s a good thing he’s gone.

\--

Castiel finally reappears a month later. Dean catches sight of him at the mayor’s ball, tucked away in a corner in hushed conversation with the mayor himself. A weird mix of annoyance and relief flushes through Dean’s system; part of him had wondered if Castiel had met an untimely demise somehow. Dean has no idea how the mafia works or what it even does in this city, but he can’t imagine it’s the safest gig around. Castiel looks more than capable of handling himself, Dean has no doubt about that, but if someone were to ever get the drop on him…

Shaking his hands out, Dean picks up a glass of champagne from a passing tray. He downs half of it in one go. There aren’t any great prospects at this party; most of the attendees are people he has already escorted, lots of them are people he’s previously conned and knows better than to target again so soon, and it’s starting to look like Dean is stuck at this ball for no damn reason. He’s perfectly capable of leaving, there’s nothing and no one tying him here, but he also doesn’t wanna lose out on a night of earnings, if there’s any to be had.

His eyes keep going back towards where Castiel has been stationed all night. He’s only left once, probably to go to the bathroom, but other than that many people have been walking up to him and talking with him briefly. Kinda weird, Dean notes, because usually Castiel keeps to himself at these parties and only has brief conversations with Thing 1 and Thing 2. He’s always very cordial when people approach him but interactions never last longer than a “how do ya do”, and Castiel _always_ looks disgruntled when he’s finally alone again. The guy doesn’t like small talk and social settings, yet here he always is, like clockwork.

Well- save for the two months where Dean didn’t see hide nor hair of him. 

Dean picks up another glass of champagne from another passing tray, downing it quickly. He’s gotta get outta here. He’s focusing way too much on Castiel, there aren’t any good pockets at this party that he’s willing to hit, and he’s got a lot of pent up energy. It’s time to go home, change into his usual denim-and-earth-toned palette, and hit a bar. Been a while since he’s gotten any action, but he tends to put his own libido on the back burner whenever he’s on the job. It helps that mostly all of his marks are repulsive.

A waiter takes his empty glass when he passes and Dean scans the crowd again for Castiel. He’s still in the same spot, this time talking to a senator and looking massively uncomfortable. Dean laughs under his breath.

As he leaves, he does his best to not think about the weird relief of Castiel returning to the social scene.

\--

“Yeah Daddy, you like that?” Dean croons, turning around. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees locked, ass up, Dean bends at the waist and skims the tips of his fingers along the polished marble floor. A flexible feat, considering his stilettos are also platforms, but he’s been doing yoga a couple times a week to get himself back into the groove of performing. It’s paid off and well, don’t tell his hippy-dippy brother Sam, but it’s actually made him feel good - get this - _emotionally_. Who’da thunk.

The heavy breathing coming from behind Dean lets him know that ‘Daddy’ likes it, indeed. Daddy is the state senator that Castiel had been talking to the other night; a young, classic-American guy, with boy next door good looks and an imaginary fake dick shoved so far up his ass he sweats when he reads scripture. There’s only a fifteen year difference between them but Dean knows how to play up a good role. That’s what he gets paid for, after all. 

Tonight Dean’s wearing a silk pink babydoll nightie with spaghetti straps and a thin sash with pompoms on the end. He’s got on plain, cotton, bikini cut panties and he’d even applied a bit of makeup to his face, highlighting his freckles and making his cheeks extra rosy. Straightening up from his stretch Dean swivels his hips and then cocks them to one side, placing his hand on the curve of his ass and tossing a smile over his shoulder.

Senator Greene is tied to a chair, wearing only his boxers and all for Dean’s taking. Stepping forward, stilettos clacking on the fancy marble floor of the penthouse suite of the fanciest hotel in the city, Dean reaches out to slide his hands over the curve of Senator Greene’s shoulders. He really is a handsome guy, the classic jock in high school that occasionally picked on other, lesser beings in order to take attention away from the fact that sometimes his eyes drop below the belt in the locker room. Dean has a bit of sympathy for him, but only a bit. He’s much more interested in the deep pockets and the fact that he won’t have to make himself throw up after tonight’s session. 

Sliding onto the man’s lap, Dean bites his lower lip when he feels the Senator’s cock bumping against his inner thigh. “You’re so big, Daddy. Do you think it’ll fit?” 

“Mmm, baby,” Senator Greene looks drugged, he’s so high off of Dean. “If you stretch yourself really, really good, it’ll fit. I promise. I can even watch you and tell you when you’re ready.” 

Donning a coy expression, Dean sits down fully onto Senator Greene’s lap, rocking his hips slowly. Daddy kink is 100% _not_ Dean’s thing, but this guy is paying a lot, and if Dean tunes it out he figures he can get a decent orgasm himself, tonight. “How do you want it, Daddy? Me on the bed? Hands and knees?”

Senator Greene’s eyes go over Dean’s shoulder, no doubt trained on the massive bed in the room. He seems to contemplate a few things, and then nods. “Yes, baby. Daddy wants to watch.” 

Dean presses a kiss to the man’s brow. As much as he loves a good fingering, he prefers to do it himself. No one does it right. Everyone treats prep like it’s some sort of delicate, careful thing, when in reality Dean fucks himself (and other people) so often, a cursory swipe of lube is all he needs nowadays. That’s not to say he doesn’t like getting fingered and stretched, because he does, but jeez. He’s not breakable and his asshole isn’t gonna rip if you go too fast.

Gracefully, Dean gets off of the man’s lap and turns around to head towards the bed. He leaves his heels on as he climbs onto the edge on his knees, dropping his chest to the plush comforter and spreading his thighs wide. It’s an obscene pose, and he loves the way the Senator’s breath hitches in reply. Swaying his hips side to side, Dean reaches back with one hand, fingers hooking in the elastic of the sweet, innocent panties, teasing the fabric side to side before finally pulling it over the curve of his ass, exposing his hole. Shaved, waxed, and bleached to perfection, Dean _loves_ the reveal, loves the reverie on his partner’s faces whenever they see the beauty that is Dean Winchester’s sweet, tight ass. 

“Look at you,” Senator Greene breathes. “Look at your pretty pussy. Fuck, baby girl.”

Dean forces a sweet giggle. Baby girl? Fine. Pussy? Pushing it, but hey. The deposit for this experience alone is going to cover Dean’s rent _and_ utilities for the next six months. Sex money + hush money = the perfect combination and whenever Dean can hit a home run, it’s the best high.

With his panties around his thighs, stretched taut, the elastic cutting into the meat of his muscle, Dean reaches back to swipe two fingers along his rim. His body starts to warm immediately, and he huffs out a few high-pitched moans for show, before withdrawing his hand and squirming. Time to kick it up a notch and earn a nice, fat, tip.

Pun halfway intended.

“Daddy, what do I do?” Dean asks. His fingers dig into his ass, pulling his cheek to the side, flexing to clench his asshole in a dirty, filthy, (pretty fucking funny in Dean’s opinion), wink.

“Oooh, baby girl,” Senator Greene lets out a wondrous, awed noise. Dean’s got this in the bag. “Get the- the lube from the nightstand. You have to make sure you’re nice and wet, ok baby?” 

Dean reaches up with a hand to grab the lube. He coats his fingers and then reaches back, hesitating again. “Do I just… put them in, Daddy?”

“Yeah,” Senator Greene’s voice sounds touched out, far away. Then, very loudly and clearly, he yells, “Hey- _HEY!_ ”

Whipping around, Dean watches in horror as a man, dressed from head to toe in black and wearing a ski mask, grabs the top of Senator Greene’s head, yanking back on his hair to expose his throat. Frozen to the bed in shock, Dean can only watch as a huge blade slices through the air and drags across the Senator’s throat, the spray of blood and hacking, gargling noises from the Senator’s mouth enough to have Dean yanking up his panties and vaulting off the bed. Even in stilettos he’s quick, and when he gets to his bag he pulls out his Beretta from the front pocket, cocking it and aiming it towards the intruder. 

The intruder who is currently taking off his mask without a care in the world.

Dean’s heart slows to a stop. “Cas?” 

Castiel Krushnic cleans the bloodied blade off on his ski mask before pocketing the mask and sheathing the blade in the holder at his hip. “Hello, Dean.” 

“What the FUCK,” Dean yells. He looks between Castiel and the dead Senator, and while maybe he should feel bad that the dude is dead, he feels more bad about all the dollar signs he can see floating away in the wind. 

“My apologies, Dean,” Castiel says. Fuck, fuck he looks good, the black turtleneck a second skin and his black pants so tight Dean can see the bulge in the front. “I will make sure you are compensated fairly.”

“Compen-” Dean lowers his gun. “ _Compensated_? This guy was gonna be a _repeat_ customer! What the fuck, Cas!?”

Castiel drags his gaze from Dean’s head down to his toes, and Dean _knows_ he looks fucking ridiculous, gun tight and steady in his grip even while wearing a silk pink nightie. And yet he skin tightens when Castiel’s gaze drags over it, and fuck, his cock gives the tiniest interested twist. Castiel is so fucking hot, it’s not _fair_ , and he’s seen Dean in all sorts of compromising positions - literally - that Dean is starting to feel heavily off-kilter in the man’s presence. 

“He was corrupt,” Castiel says simply. 

Dean doesn’t waver. His gun is trained on Castiel’s kneecap at this point. “He’s a _politician_ , Cas. They’re all corrupt.”

“Some are,” Castiel says casually with a shrug. “Some are not. Senator Greene was overseeing detention centers and not report incidents correctly.” 

Dean’s jaw ticks at Castiel’s grammatical slip-up. His accent isn’t hot. He’s not hot. Castiel Krushnic is not a man Dean would fall to his knees for. Nope. No way.

Turning his gaze towards the dead body, Dean weighs the information Castiel has given him. He knew Greene was a red-blooded American, face of the Republican party, but he had no idea that the man was operating the detention centers. That’s fucked up. There are _children_ stuck there, and- oh God, he made Dean call him Daddy-

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Dean finally uncocks his gun and turns away from the body, pinching the bridge of his nose and inhaling shakily to try and breathe through the nausea. 

“My condolences,” Castiel says blandly. “It is best if you leave, Dean. No one will know you were here.” 

Oh shit, because the Senator was just murdered in front of Dean, a fucking call girl, who is charging _way_ more than anyone else in the fucking city, and holy shit, Dean’s DNA is going to be everywhere, oh no, oh no-

“Dean.” 

Dean flicks his gaze up to Castiel. Now- here’s the thing. Dean isn’t a wuss, alright? He’s had his fair share of scuffles, and hell, he’s even offed a dude or three that were deserving. Death doesn’t scare him, murder doesn’t freak him out, but here he is, actually _innocent_ in this specific scenario, and _that_ is scary. He could get put away for even being _seen_ with the Senator-

“ _Dean_.” 

Clenching his teeth, Dean meets Castiel’s gaze.

“I will take care of this. Please take your things and leave.”

Don’t tell him twice. Dean packs away his gun, changes into his street clothes in record time, zipping his duffel bag and not bothering to tie his boots as he starts towards the door. Fingers on the handle, Dean pauses, glancing over his shoulder to see Castiel opening up his own duffel bag. The man doesn’t acknowledge Dean further, and Dean doesn’t _wanna_ be acknowledged, so he lets out a short breath and then lets himself out of the room.

It’s only when the elevator is almost to the main floor that Dean suddenly realizes that Castiel Krushnic knows his name.

\--

Dean lays low for a few weeks after the Senator’s death. Not enough to make himself suspicious; he works a few shifts at the Roadhouse, does a few Good Samaritan things like helping little old ladies at the crosswalk, or pushing an elderly gentleman’s grocery cart while shopping. Things that he usually does because he’s a good guy, alright?, but also things that maybe, little by little, ease the bit of guilt Dean feels. Senator Greene deserved punishment, but he’s unsure if the guy needed to be murdered in cold blood. Not only that, but killed by Castiel Krushnic? What does the mob have to do with crooked politicians?

An envelope with nothing but Dean’s name shows up in the mail a month after the murder. Dean’s spent the day cleaning his apartment, spick-and-span, just for the hell of it. He’s feeling antsy and thinking about going out tonight. Not to pick a mark, but just to go blow off some steam. He’s humming a Metallica song to himself as he sorts through the mail, arching a brow at the plain white envelope. The handwriting is pretty, almost calligraphy. Turning it over and running his finger under the seal, his other brow rises to match its twin as he pulls a check out.

A check for the exact amount of money he was going to get from Senator Greene… plus his estimated tip. 

Looking around, Dean drops the check onto the table. He moves to the window over his sink, pulling back the lacy curtains to peer outside. His apartment is in an alright part of the city, not super high class but also not dog town; purposely neutral, an area where suspicious people get reported immediately and at least one elderly person sitting out on their front porch watching the goings-on of the neighborhood. 

Speaking of- there’s Missouri. Dean goes back to the table to tuck the check back into the envelope and then slides his feet into a pair of sandals. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt but doesn’t have the patience to change, choosing to go out like this. He’s just going across the street anyway. As he approaches Missouri’s house she gives him a knowing smile from where she’s rocking gently in her porch swing.

Missouri is a kind, maternal soul with the kind of charm only a Southern black woman can possess. When Dean first moved in she’d been over with a plate of cookies and a stern ‘we’re neighbors, not strangers’ speech, and ok, Dean’s got some mommy issues of his own, so he’d readily accepted Missouri’s (somewhat forceful) affections. Missouri doesn’t ask a lot of questions but she’s one of those women who seem to just _know_ everything that’s going on, even without being told.

So when Dean approaches and she gets a twinkle in her eye, Dean immediately knows that she saw who dropped off the check.

“I wasn’t aware you were taking callers,” Missouri says when Dean takes a seat on the rocker next to the swing. 

Dean laughs a little, leaning back and lacing his fingers over his stomach. “Me either. Did you get a good look at him?”

“Oh, a _handsome_ fella,” Missouri says with a serious nod. “Dark hair, tan skin. These old eyes couldn’t see many details from here, but that boy was a sight.” She reaches out a hand to pat Dean’s knee warmly. “He fretted outside for a few moments before finally putting something in your mailbox.” 

Fretted? Castiel Krushnic doesn’t _fret_. But Dean smiles because the image of cool, confident, unshakeable Castiel Krushnic waffling about leaving money in Dean’s mailbox is too good to pass up.

“Did he leave right away?” Dean asks.

“He did,” Missouri nods. “Big ol’ SUV came and scooped him up. I didn’t see how he’d gotten to your place, I was just coming out to sit when I saw him.”

Dean rubs his fingers over his lips a few times, frowning across the street at his apartment. It’s a small complex of four units, a glorified duplex really, and Dean has a ground-level spot. He likes it because he’s responsible for the tiny lawn out front, which he has manicured and decorated in a way HGTV would like to photograph. It ain’t much, but it’s home. Letting out a little noise, Dean pats Missouri’s hand on his knee gently.

“Well, thanks for letting me know who it was.” 

Missouri nods, folding her hands on her lap and sending Dean a secretive smile. “What will you do?”

“About?” Dean asks, standing and sending Missouri a quizzical looks.

“About your admirer, boy,” Missouri scolds softly. “How will you respond to your caller?”

Oh, if only Missouri knew the true reason for Castiel dropping something off at Dean’s house. “I dunno, yet. But hey, you makin’ any casserole tonight?” 

“You tellin’ me you’re hungry?”

Dean laughs. “I’m always hungry for your food, Missouri.”

She waves him off with a playful scowl, “Get outta here boy, before you change the subject again and give an old lady whiplash.” 

Dean winks and hops down the steps of her porch to head back towards his apartment. His good humor fades when he gets back into his kitchen and stares at the personal check written directly to him. This isn’t hush money - this is the _exact_ amount Senator Greene was going to pay him. If Castiel wanted to ensure the assassination stayed secret, he could have tacked on a few extra grand. 

Dean picks up the check, fanning himself idly with it as he thinks. Castiel doesn’t need to pay him hush money; if Dean blabs it’ll put him at the scene of the crime, and he’s been watching the news - they have no leads on who killed the Senator. It’s for Dean’s own good to stay quiet. 

He looks at the check again. It’s made out to Dean Winchester, from C. Krushnic. 

Thank God for mobile banking, because Dean’s pretty sure he’d rather eat his own foot than go to a bank and have a teller see that he’s been given money by the mob.

\--

Castiel falls off the radar again for a few weeks. Dean’s a little less concerned this time, because Castiel had returned without a fuss before, and that’s likely to happen again. Dean’s schmoozing up an international honey, a cougar from Luxembourg with so many diamonds on her neck and wrist Dean’s surprised no one around her is wearing sunglasses. She’s pretty, too, with elegant silver hair and laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. Botox is everyone’s friend, these days. Her body, though? No faking that. Dean’s pretty sure that while they were dancing he felt the flex of her obliques. His mind immediately goes in the gutter, of course. He wouldn’t mind sleeping with this mark. He’s always kinda had a thing for bossy older women. 

Their dance is interrupted by a finger tapping on Dean’s shoulder. He’s expecting a guy that wants to cut in and dance with the lovely lady. What he’s not expecting is Castiel nodding his head in apology to the woman, who lifts her brows in pleasant surprise but gracefully bows out. Castiel takes up her place, then, and sweeps Dean onto the dance floor.

Finding his voice, Dean’s eyes narrow, even as his feet automatically follow Castiel’s lead. “What do you want.” 

“I wanted to make sure you got your gift,” Castiel says simply. His hands and fingers burn Dean’s shoulder and palm. 

“Pretty sure you get notified when someone cashes a check you wrote,” Dean says. He’s starting to get clammy where Castiel’s fingers are holding his hand. 

“True,” Castiel says, still patient and calm. 

They make a few passes around the dance floor before Dean’s irritation finally gets the better of him. “You couldn’t have waited until _after_ I was done and gone?” 

Castiel _laughs_. It’s a pure, rich sound, as he tosses his head back. His upper row of teeth are pristine and perfect, but there are a few teeth out of line on the bottom row. Fuck, he’s so hot. Fuck. Once he stops laughing he pulls Dean closer, his palm moving from Dean’s shoulder so his arm can drape across the upper part of Dean’s back. It brings Castiel’s mouth right up to Dean’s ear. “Did I rob you of orgasm? I can repay your money, but I cannot repay the pleasure.”

Dean’s cheeks heat up both with embarrassment and the proximity of Castiel’s mouth to his flesh. When Castiel moved closer Dean’s arm had automatically gone around his lower back, pressing their chests together. He brings their joined hands towards their bodies, resting Castiel’s palm against his pec as their steps slow into a gentle, rotating sway instead. “You know that’s not what I mean. Why didn’t you wait until he was sleeping or somethin’? And I was gone?” 

Castiel rests his cheek on Dean’s shoulder. This is not how a straight man dances with another man. Dean’s mouth goes dry. Castiel is straight, Castiel is the fucking mob boss, and apparently, Castiel is a trained assassin. “I admit, when I found he was with you, I couldn’t wait.” 

Dean rolls his eyes, even though Castiel can’t see it, to cover up the mild panic rising in his chest. “Y’know, Cas, if you wanted to see me so bad you coulda just asked.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Castiel replies easily. Dean admires the frank way he speaks and the way he blasts through Dean’s shitty jokes. “You were perfect cover. It was easy to set up the scene for… jilted lover.”

He mentally cards through all the news reports, and feels his panic receding bit by bit. “I always book under a female name.”

“And after putting everything where it belonged, it was obvious Senator Greene was having affair,” Castiel says. “With a woman. A very jealous woman.” 

Dean snorts a little laugh. His stubble is lightly scraping Castiel’s forehead, but the man doesn’t seem to mind. “And she’s in the wind because Senator Greene paid her in cash.” 

Castiel finally pulls away from Dean so he can look him in the eyes. “I really do apologize for inconvenience. I did not realize it was you that he booked.”

Because of the name. Dean frowns. “What if it hadn’t been me? What if it’d really been some lady up there, and you just showed up and sliced that dude’s throat?” 

“I would have escorted the woman out,” Castiel says, brows knitting. God, he looks attractive when he’s confused. “Do you think I would have done that in front of lady company?” 

“Oh, so you’re chivalrous?” Dean snorts. 

Castiel rolls his eyes and the expression is so human, so _adorable_ \- “I knew you would handle the situation better. The original plan was to poison him after ensuring he was alone. A planted drug overdose.” 

Dean blinks. “Woah.”

“I am not rookie, Dean,” Castiel chides. “This is not my first horse ride.” 

Dean blinks again, and then bites his lower lip to try and stifle his guffaws. “Uh. Rodeo.”

Castiel blinks in turn, and then shrugs. “In any case, all possibilities had been accounted for.”

“I guess you’re lucky it was me,” Dean finally agrees. “Anyone else woulda been a pain to shut up.” 

“And you…” Castiel withdraws fully as the song fades to its end. His fingers gently straighten Dean’s lapel, which had wrinkled slightly with Castiel’s head resting on it. “You know that a man like Senator Greene deserved punishment much more painful than poison.” He meets Dean’s eyes, the quiet fury in them palpable.

Quelle surprise. The mob boss just might be a vigilante. 

“Yeah,” Dean finally says as Castiel withdraws his hands. There are scorch marks left behind. “You’re right.” 

Castiel offers the tiniest of smiles. “See you around, Dean.” 

Dean has a feeling he will.

\--

Three weeks later Dean is standing in a congressman’s mansion, using a washcloth in the bathroom to wipe blood and other gross bodily substances off of his face. “Seriously, man?”

Castiel, from the congressman’s bedroom, carefully uses a pair of forceps to dig the bullet out of the congressman’s forehead. “Apologies. This was the only time I could get clean shot.” 

Dean throws the washcloth in the sink, giving up for now on trying to mop up the brain splatter covering him from head to waist. “Ha. Ha. _Clean_. Ha. You’re so fuckin’ funny, Cas, wow.” He turns to the shower, opening up the glass door and turning it on. He’s wearing only his boxers, which also have some blood spatter on them, and he’s fucking pissed. “Your crime scene techs are gonna sweep this place, right? Or whatever it is you got to set shit up?”

“Yes,” Castiel’s voice is faint.

“Thank God because this shower looks heavenly,” Dean says. He drops his boxers and steps inside the shower, letting out a satisfied sigh as the water pressure hits him just right at all angles. He opens the door to reach into his toiletry bag on the counter, grabbing what he needs to clean himself off nice and good. The water is pink and there are definitely chunks of things Dean doesn’t wanna know clogging the drain. He’s in the middle of washing his hair when Castiel’s voice is suddenly much closer than it was before. 

“The crew will be here in twenty minutes.” 

Dean yelps a little and throws a glare towards the bathroom door, where Castiel is standing. He’s wearing that all black ensemble that hugs every curve and plane of his body and Dean has to whip his head away to try and focus on washing himself and _not_ getting a chubby. “Personal space, dude.”

There’s a frown in Castiel’s voice when he replies, “I have seen your anus.” 

“WOW,” Dean covers his eyes with his hand and lets out a delirious laugh as his cheeks flame. “Look, just let me shower in peace and then I’ll be outta your hair.”

“I can have someone take you home,” Castiel suggests.

“No,” Dean says, doing his best to ignore the fact that a hot straight dude is having a conversation with him while he’s showering. “No, I got it. I’ll grab an Uber.” 

There’s a pause before Castiel replies, “I have robbed you of another orgasm.”

Dean chances a glance towards Castiel, barely able to see the guy through the fog on the glass door. “Look, buddy, it’s alright. Nothing me and my hand can’t fix later.” 

Castiel visibly shifts on his feet. “Would you accept compensation?” 

“Oh you’re _definitely_ putting money in my bank account after tonight, pal. I’m gonna need a q-tip to get _someone else’s_ brain outta my ears.” Dean snorts. The water is finally running clear, and he’s been using his toes to collect the… chunks… from the drain to put them in the corner of the shower. 

“I meant for orgasm.”

Dean’s head whips so fast his neck cracks. Wincing, he lifts a hand up to his neck to massage it idly, free hand clearing the fog from the glass so he can clearly see Castiel. “What?”

“I also have men that provide services. Or women, if you prefer.” 

Dean’s jaw goes a little slack. “Woah, bud. No way. No cash for ass. At least- _I_ don’t pay for sex.” 

“Free of charge,” Castiel replies.

“ _No_ ,” Dean snaps. After taking a few breaths, he turns off the shower and opens the door. He’s surprised to see Castiel holding out a towel for him, but his surprise quickly turns into a scowl as he snatches the towel and starts drying himself off, uncaring of his wet, naked state. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll live.” 

There’s another awkward silence as Dean dries himself off and Castiel _watches_. It’s not a sexual gaze - Dean knows what those feel like - but Castiel is looking rather… thoughtful. Rolling his eyes, Dean starts packing up his toiletry bag after securing the towel around his waist.

“Spit it out.” 

“I would like to hire you.” 

Dean stares at Castiel for thirty seconds before replying, “You’re straight.”

Castiel huffs. “Not for that.”

Dean squints. “Then for what?” 

Castiel gestures idly around the general area. “For this. Many of my marks are hard to get to and yet… you do it so effortlessly.”

Dean blinks a few times. “You want me to… seduce your victims.” 

“Yes,” Castiel says easily. “I cannot give you my list, for security reasons, and I am sure you are unwilling to tell me about your… dates.” He folds his arms over his chest and his turtleneck is so tight, it’s easy to see his biceps bulging. “We can make an arrangement.” 

“What, like if I just happen to seduce one of your marks, you’re gonna come in guns a blazin’, then we go our separate ways again?” 

“It has worked so far,” Castiel shrugs. “If you do not know who my marks are, you will not treat any clients differently and raise flag.”

Dean mulls it over as he pulls on a pair of clean boxers, quickly followed by his jeans. As he’s pulling his shirt over his head he says, “You pay me what my clients were supposed to pay me… and then some.” 

“I will triple their offer,” Castiel readily agrees.

Dean squints at Castiel, and then pulls a flannel over his t-shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. After a moment, he shrugs. “Why the hell not. What could go wrong?”

\--

Having Castiel show up out of fucking nowhere and kill Dean’s clients is, at first, as jarring as ever. Castiel seemingly comes out from the shadows like some sort of demon, and his kills are always ruthless. Although he’d said that he was going to use poison on Senator Greene, Dean has a suspicion that Castiel prefers the more violent, bloody methods. Dean’s gotten real good at getting blood out of his clothes and has now made a habit of packing his go-bag a little more than usual, with extra clothes and extra toiletries. Dean picks up clients as usual, and the actual ratio of them being Castiel’s marks is sitting at a good twenty-percent, so it’s actually not as inconvenient as Dean originally thought it’d be. 

It’s been six months of unofficially working with Castiel. They still see each other at parties and act cordial, if not disinterested, and whenever Castiel makes his way into whatever bedroom Dean is staying in, they don’t talk much. Castiel’s actually a pretty awkward guy, Dean discovers. He’s got no concept of personal space, takes jokes too literally, and when he’s uncomfortable he pretends he doesn’t speak English well. Ok that last one is actually pretty hilarious and Dean _loves_ when Castiel gets that uncomfortable. It’s great and usually has everything to do with older women who seem to want a piece of the handsome Russian mob boss.

Tonight they’re at the same party, as usual. Dean is chatting up Senator Dick Roman, who’s visiting town for the weekend and asking Dean about what activities he can do while blatantly undressing Dean with his eyes. Things are going well- Dean knows that Roman is smarmy, but he’s good looking in that American Psycho kinda way, and also the guy’s wallet is stacked. So it comes as a surprise when Castiel slides up to Dean, an arm across Dean’s lower back as the man’s solid body lines up with Dean’s spine.

“There you are,” Castiel says.

An act.

Dean falls into it easily, shifting to send a smile to Castiel. He never interferes- something must be wrong. “Hey, you.” 

Roman’s eyes look between them with unguarded interest. “Mr. Krushnic.” He greets, holding out his hand. “I didn’t know you would be in attendance tonight.”

Castiel looks at Roman’s hand and, after a moment, reaches to give it a firm shake. His touch lingers a fraction too long, and little alarm bells start ringing very, very faintly in the back of Dean’s head. “Here I am,” Castiel says. He moves to stand at Dean’s side, arm still around Dean’s waist. “I see you have found the most fun company at tonight’s party.” 

Oh, he means Dean. Dean’s smile is all charm as he looks between the two men, unsure of what exactly is happening. “Mr. Roman was just asking me about what activities he can do this weekend during his stay.” 

Castiel’s eyes flash in a way Dean’s never seen before. “I would be happy to make suggestion.”

Roman looks between them again, the corners of his lips quirking. “Oh?”

“Oh?” Dean echoes, turning to stare holes in the side of Castiel’s head. 

Castiel pulls a card out of the pocket of his slacks, passing it smoothly to Roman. “Meet us here in an hour. We will show you good time.” 

“I’ll be there,” Roman says, slipping the card into his pocket. He winks, and then slips into the crowd, leaving Dean alone with Castiel.

“Did you just invite him into a threesome with us?” Dean hisses directly into Castiel’s ear. 

“Yes,” Castiel replies blandly, and then takes Dean’s hand to start leading him through the crowd. “We must hurry and get set up before he arrives.”

“Oh my God,” Dean’s heartbeat starts to thunder against his ribs as he follows Castiel. “He’s- we’re-”

“I cannot leave you alone with him,” Castiel says. They leave the main gallery and head down the halls that lead towards the back of the building. “He is dangerous.”

Dean rolls his eyes, even if he’s still feeling a little panicky. “Thanks, mom, but I think I can handle one dude.”

The breath gets knocked out of him when Castiel suddenly pushes him up against a wall, the strength of the man making Dean dizzy with confused want. 

“Richard Roman is a _prostitute killer_ ,” Castiel hisses, some spit hitting Dean’s lower lip as his accent hits the words hard. “I will _not_ leave you alone with him for _one minute_.”

Dean swallows around the dryness of his throat, sending off a crooked smile, “Aw, Cas. Didn’t know you cared.”

Castiel jerks Dean slightly. “This is not a game, Dean. We are going to meet Roman in a controlled environment, and then we are going to kill him.”

“ _We_ -” Dean lifts his hands. “No, _I_ seduce, _you_ kill.” 

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “The contract changes for one night. We do this together. It is our only chance.” 

Dean meets his glare, but he can’t really concentrate because despite their minor height difference, Castiel’s got Dean so pinned against the wall he’s on his tip toes. Huffing out a breath, Dean swats at Castiel’s forearms. “Alright, lemme go. Jesus. Fine.” 

Castiel lets him go, and then straightens out his own suit jacket. “Now, we must hurry.”

As Dean follows Castiel out the private exit, he starts to wonder if tonight is the night reality will come back around and fuck him directly in the ass.

\--

An hour later, Dean and Castiel are lounging on a large bed. They’re in a house, well a mansion really, a property on the outskirts of the city. Secluded, private. Dean’s trying to relax as much as possible, but it’s fucking difficult. He’s wearing red satin panties and nothing else, nerves keeping his dick soft as he tries to find a comfortable position. 

Next to him Castiel shifts, too, and Dean does his best to not look over at him.

Because if he does, he’ll immediately pop a boner, and he’s not sure how he feels about that.

Castiel is wearing a black pair of satin panties, a darker, mirror image of Dean’s visage. 

Dean thinks that Castiel is oddly comfortable in this situation, for a straight guy, but then Dean remembers that Castiel is a pretty no-nonsense dude and knows how to adapt to situations, so the fact that he’s lounging on a bed in a pair of panties waiting for a dude and an imaginary threesome probably isn’t affecting Castiel like it is Dean. 

The door opens, Thing 1 allowing Roman into the room. The Senator’s eyes immediately fall where Dean and Castiel are lounging on the bed and he lets out a low groan of approval, his hands immediately reaching for his bowtie to start undoing it.

“Beautiful,” Roman murmurs. He undresses as he makes his way towards the bed and damn it, why are all the hot ones psycho?

“Welcome,” Dean purrs. He shifts to get his feet under him, propping up on his knees as Roman stands at the end of the bed. Castiel follows his lead and together they kneel in front of Roman, and man, Dean wishes he could see them from the Senator’s perspective.

“My, my,” Roman says. “What a sight you are.” He reaches out with both hands, petting Castiel and Dean’s heads at the same time. They both lean into the touches, and Roman bites his lower lip before pulling away. He strips down to his underwear and then makes his way to sit in the fancy wingback chair sitting adjacent to the bed, settling himself on the plush cushions. “Mm… let’s get the show started.”

Show? Dean tries not to let the confusion on his face show, but he can’t halt the surprised gasp when Castiel’s palm slides up his thigh. Castiel’s other hand lifts up towards Dean’s face to meet his gaze, his thumb swiping over Dean’s full, lower lip. Dean can’t really trust Castiel as far as he can throw him, but in this exact moment, he sees the determination in Castiel’s eyes. They gotta do this. Holy shit.

Holy shit this is a _threesome_.

With! Castiel!

The first press of their lips is electric. Dean gasps at the shock of it, and then hums when Castiel presses in again, mouths opening and tongues immediately sliding against each other. For a straight dude Castiel kisses another man like he enjoys it, and Dean does his best to remind himself that it’s a show - that Castiel doesn’t really want to be doing this, but is going forward with the plan because it’s how they’ll get the drop on Roman. They shift towards each other, Dean’s hands reaching up to card his fingers through Castiel’s messy, silky hair, and oh. Wow. Holy crap Castiel is an _amazing_ kisser, all encompassing and thorough, making Dean’s toes curl and his heart skip a few beats.

Castiel is pushing Dean back, and Dean goes willingly to lie out in the center of the huge bed. His legs fall open naturally, Castiel fitting himself in the space provided, propped up on his hands as he dives to start pressing hot, wet kisses along the length of Dean’s throat. Dean pants out, skin flushing, and he should focus on Roman’s presence and not the way their silk panties are sliding together and how his cock is slowly but surely starting to harden. His spine arches and he cuts off a moan when Castiel starts toying with his nipples, laving attention on Dean’s body with hands, mouth, and tongue. No one’s been this generous to Dean right off the bat, no one has so thoroughly touched him and kissed him, and Dean has to once again remind himself that this is a show for Roman. Castiel might be a generous lover, but he’s not a generous lover to _men_. This is a one-off situation. Dean might have to quit after tonight to keep things from being awkward.

Actually come to think of it that’s all the reason for Dean to play it up and enjoy himself even just a little bit. Reaching to Castiel’s head, tangling his fingers in his hair, Dean wraps his legs around Castiel’s waist and yanks, expertly rolling them over and pinning Castiel down to the bed. Castiel’s eyes are laser-focused but he has the rest of his face schooled into a dazed expression, and Dean knows he hasn’t surprised Castiel at all. 

Settled over Castiel’s pelvis, Dean rocks his hips down, dragging his ass along Castiel’s groin. He doesn’t feel anything hard beneath him, which is only a mild disappointment, but also something easily remedied. Castiel’s hands go to Dean’s waist to help him grind and Dean fans his hands over Castiel’s tan chest, tweaking both of his nipples at the same time. Castiel sucks in a breath, lets out a shaky exhale, and then rocks his hips upwards. Still not hard, but Roman can’t see that.

Dean continues rolling his hips. He’s fully hard, now, and he can’t be ashamed of it when he knows he’s putting on a good show. Even with the knowledge in the back of his head that someone is going to die tonight - preferably Roman - Dean’s libido doesn’t seem to get the message that this is all pretend. In fact, if anything, he’s even more ramped up than usual. The combination of having a spectator and also getting his hands on Castiel is doing wonders for his spank bank. And Castiel looks damn good, his eyes hooded and his jaw relaxed. He’s still intently focused on Dean, the depths of his eyes a reminder as to what exactly they’re doing, but Dean sees a flush in his cheeks and figures he’ll take what he can get. 

The bed dips. Roman is crawling to join them, and when he gets close enough to Castiel to go in for a kiss, Castiel lifts a hand to gently guide Roman’s face away from his. 

“I don’t kiss anyone but Dean,” Castiel says, his voice gravel-rough and breathy. He smirks, pushing Roman’s face towards Dean. “But Dean kisses everyone.” 

Of fucking course, pawn off the kisses. But kissing one dude tonight is probably Castiel’s quota, and Dean can respect that. Roman kisses like he talks, oily and slick and commanding. Dean forces himself to submit to the kiss even though all his instincts are telling him to take control of the situation. Castiel is here. Castiel will protect him.

Roman crawls up Dean until Dean is forced to lie back on the bed again. As Roman kisses him with the intensity of a Dyson vacuum, Castiel’s mouth starts to press kisses across Dean’s torso. Having two mouths on him is quite an experience, and Dean is forced to lie back and try to hold onto his sanity. His cock hasn’t even been touched yet, and Roman is not at all what Dean would like between his legs, but hey, Dean’s wires must be some sort of crossed because for some reason this situation is _really_ turning him on. Great. 

Castiel’s presence disappears briefly. Roman’s got his dick out the slit of his boxers, jerking himself in tight, controlled movements as he kisses down Dean’s neck. 

“Beautiful,” Roman murmurs. “Filthy… dirty… beautiful…” 

Dean pants now that his mouth is able to properly take in oxygen without Roman’s tongue occupying it. 

Roman continues to growl against his skin, “Tainted, corrupt…”

Those warning bells go off again in Dean’s brain when Roman lifts a hand to press against his throat. Dean’s eyes open to see Roman hovering over him, madness in his eyes as he presses his fingers in on Dean’s windpipe.

“Filthy _slut_!” Roman spits. 

Tan hands and thin wire appear from behind Roman. His grip leaves Dean’s throat to instead try and get his fingers between the wire and his throat, rage lighting up his eyes and a furious yell leaving his throat. 

“ _Krushnic_!”

Dean watches Castiel’s forearm muscles bulge as he locks Roman against his chest, the wire wrapped tight around Roman’s throat and digging into the flesh so hard pinpricks of blood start to stain the silver. Roman’s still kneeling between Dean’s legs and when he starts to struggle Dean gets up to his own knees, wrapping his arms around Roman and Castiel in a bear hug. Roman can’t move anything, now, fully trapped between the two men as Castiel slowly but surely cuts off his air supply. 

“That’s _my_ filthy slut.”

That’s all Dean hears before he’s suddenly drenched in body-hot blood and gore. Castiel pulled the wire so taut he decapitated Roman. The head rolls off the bed and thumps onto the floor, the body sags in the opposite direction, and now Dean is just holding onto Castiel’s middle, cheek pressed to his sternum and Castiel’s arms raised above Dean’s head, still holding the wire.

It’s quiet for a few moments. Dean can feel the pitter-patter of Castiel’s heart against his cheek, can hear his own shallow breathing. It takes a moment for him to unglue himself from Castiel’s body, the blood sticky between them. They’re both covered in the substance, staring at each other. 

Castiel kicks Roman’s body off of the bed and smashes his mouth to Dean’s, tackling him down into the bedding. Dean’s brain barely kicks into gear to start kissing back, bloody hands and fingers moving over Castiel’s hair, down his back, and oh God, his erection never flagged, he had a boner while he helped Castiel kill someone, and-

Castiel’s hard cock is tenting his panties obscenely.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes, reaching down to cup Castiel’s ass and grip it tight, wrapping his legs around his waist to grind their hard dicks together. “Fuck, fuck, please, holy shit I want you so bad.” 

Alright, so murder kinda does it for Dean, and it _definitely_ does it for Castiel because the guy’s so hard his cock is beating in time with his heart. The bed is covered in gore, there’s a very distinct stench in the air, and all Dean can focus on is Castiel dry humping him into next Tuesday. This is very unsanitary and _very_ hot. Dean flips himself over onto his stomach and presents his ass, looking over his shoulder.

“ _Cas_.” 

Castiel seems to snap out of a daze. He reaches for Dean’s panties and pulls them down, wasting no time in sealing his lips against Dean’s hole. He sucks, spits, and tonguefucks Dean until Dean is almost crying with frustration, his hips rocking, his left hand jerking his cock slowly and messily. Castiel removes his mouth before Dean is ready but Dean can feel the blunt head of his dick pressing against his hole and oh, yes, fuck yeah-

They both groan in unison when Castiel sinks in balls deep. The glide is aided by spit and probably blood and the fact that Dean knows how to relax to let a dick in. Castiel drapes over Dean’s back, wraps his arms around his chest, and starts fucking him slow and deep. Dean all but sobs into the bedspread, their arousal mixing with the scent of death in the air and fuck, Dean really needs to examine this moment at a later time because what the hell. Castiel’s pace speeds up slightly, and Dean feels the glide of silk on his thighs and knows that Castiel only pushed down his own panties far enough to get the job done. Oh fuck. Fuck, they’re both still wearing panties. 

Castiel draws back, his grip on Dean’s hips keeping them from separating. Dean goes up as he goes back, and when Castiel lies out on his back Dean gets his feet and legs situated for reverse cowgirl, his panties now hanging off of one ankle as he braces his palms on Castiel’s shins and starts to ride him. A stinging slap lands on his ass and Dean lets out a fairly embarrassing noise in reply, which of course encourages Castiel to slap him again on the other side. Then his hands are on either of Dean’s cheeks, spreading him wide open, and damn it Dean can _feel_ the man’s gaze on his asshole and the way it eats up his cock. Castiel’s thumb wanders to the rim and Dean’s rhythm stutters when it slips inside, stretching him further.

“Fuck, Cas-” Dean pants out.

Castiel is a silent lover, but Dean can appreciate it. What Castiel doesn’t say with words he says with the rest of his body. He allows Dean to ride him for another few minutes and then he’s shifting, their positions moving again. This time his cock slips out as he puts Dean on his back and settles between his legs, Dean’s thighs automatically going to those narrow hips. Castiel presses the head of his cock to Dean’s hole, but doesn’t push in. Dean raises bloody hands up to Castiel’s head, neck, shoulders, touching him everywhere, smearing the crimson liquid as he pants and begs Castiel with his eyes to fuck him.

His cock pushes in just far enough for the head to get swallowed, and then he pulls out quickly. Dean’s hole clenches and he hiccups a protest, only for Castiel to do it again, and again, and again. He’s got a wicked smirk on his face as he watches Dean crumble, clearly pleased at the fact Dean is so hungry for his cock. 

_That’s_ my _filthy slut_.

Heat ricochets through Dean’s entire body as those words echo in his brain. “Cas-” 

Castiel pushes his cock in all the way, shifts his hips a little, and then folds Dean in half. “Dean.” He replies calmly, their gazes meeting. He subtly moves, his dick pressing against Dean’s prostate.

“Fuck, say it- call me-” Dean can’t get a coherent fucking thought out of his damn mouth. Castiel’s dick is _good_.

The little smirk on Castiel’s lips makes it obvious that he knows exactly what Dean wants. “Call you what?”

Balls deep in Dean’s asshole shouldn’t be the best place to get on his nerves, but Dean’s nails scrape over the curve of Castiel’s perfect shoulders, leaving streaks of golden skin in a mess of red. “You-” Castiel rocks his hips. Dean tries again. “You know what.” 

“Mmm,” Castiel, with Dean folded in half, is within kissing distance. Dean’s legs are over his shoulders, their noses brush, and it’s incredibly intimate and sweet in a sea of blood. “You like when I call you my filthy slut?” 

“Fuck,” Dean doesn’t even hide the way his voice warbles. “Fuck, yeah Cas. I’m your filthy slut.” 

“You are, hm?” Castiel rocks his hips a few times, slow. It’s a mimicry of making love, these slow movements and hushed tones. Ironic, really. “But I am straight.” 

Dean manages to whuff out a delirious laugh, “Tell that to your dick in my ass.”

Castiel stops moving, buried deep inside Dean. He feels so fucking _full_ ; it’s never been like this before. Sex, that is. Dean is so used to putting on a show and doing whatever his clients want, and it’s been such a long time since he’s had a casual hookup, he’s just used to the routine. Flash a smile, shake his ass, give good head. Figures that a romp with a straight dude at a murder scene would have Dean seeing The Light.

Bullshit.

“I think, Dean,” Castiel murmurs, the way he says Dean’s name more like a prayer than sin, “that I could not resist you forever.” 

Dean’s face heats up. Castiel’s nose is still against his, gently on the right side, enough pressure to be a nuzzle and too close for their eyes to meet. “Oh.”

Castiel chuckles at Dean’s dumb response. He pulls his head back so they can look at each other, Castiel’s eyes filled with things that Dean’s pretty sure has never existed within them before. Oh, woah. 

“I don’t do relationships,” Dean blurts out.

Balls deep, Castiel arches a brow and tilts his head. “I was not asking for one.” 

“I’m- ok,” Dean flexes his fingers where they lay over Castiel’s biceps. “Um. Good. Cool.”

“Good,” Castiel echoes. His hips rock shallowly. “Now, I am going to finish fucking you.”

“Ok,” Dean replies breathlessly. 

Castiel makes good on his word. With Dean folded in half he has the leverage to absolutely _pound_ into him. Their skin slaps, more blood splatters from the friction of their dirty bodies hitting each other, and Dean comes embarrassingly fast the instant he puts a hand on his cock. Castiel fucks him through it and then fill him up, orgasm passing through him with a low, grumbling growl that chases goosebumps up Dean’s spine. He pulls out and Dean winces when he feels the mess seeping out of his body, and for a moment, they just stare at each other, Dean on his back trying to catch his breath, and Castiel kneeling between his legs, panties soiled and skin covered in way too many fluids.

“That was fucked up,” Dean says to the ceiling. 

“I wasn’t planning on using wire,” Castiel says casually as he gets off of the bed.

“I’m not- that’s not what I was talking about,” Dean laughs, covering his face. He looks over to see the puzzled expression on Castiel’s features, and then breaks out into uncontrollable laughter. Of course, Castiel would think Dean was talking about the brutal murder weapon, and not fucking in the middle of a crime scene. Once his laughter is under control Dean gets off of the bed, snickering at his panties where they’re tangled around his ankle.

“You may clean up and go,” Castiel says. He’s got his phone in his hands. “My crew will be here in thirty minutes.” 

Dean surveys the mess of the bed and the floor around it, his gaze landing on Castiel where he stands, panties back in place and blood dripping from the strands of hair plastered to his forehead. He looks at the bathroom, which is plenty big, and then looks back at the mob boss. “Thirty minutes, huh?” 

Castiel sends Dean a curious glance.

Dean inclines his head towards the bathroom. 

Castiel arches a brow. “I thought you don’t do relationships.” 

“Don’t gotta date to take a shower together,” Dean rolls his eyes.

Castiel squints, and then after a moment, asks, “How much?”

Dean once again glances around the room and the carnage left in their wake. “Eight large.” He flashes Castiel a grin as he starts heading towards the bathroom. “Nine if you want me to be your ‘filthy slut’ one more time before your crew gets here.” 

Castiel is hot on his heels, crowding a laughing Dean into the bathroom.

\--

“Quid-pro-quo,” Castiel says from where he stands behind Dean. He’s holding a silver chain in his fingers, reaching up and over Dean’s head as he lays the necklace over Dean’s bare collarbones, carefully fastening the clasp at the back of his neck. His fingers whisper against Dean’s skin, making him shudder in response. 

Looking at his reflection in the floor-length mirror, Dean surveys the chain. Not so long to get caught on things and be inconvenient, but not short enough to mimic a collar. Castiel wears a matching one.

“Quid-pro-quo,” Dean agrees, his gaze meeting Castiel’s in the mirror. 

The dead body propped up in a chair on the other side of the room falls to the floor with a _whump_.

**Author's Note:**

> my [twitter](https://twitter.com/deansdaisydukes)


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